


Tried, Condemned, Punished

by mbaline



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cock & Ball Torture, Forced Orgasm, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 15:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13057032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbaline/pseuds/mbaline
Summary: He drifts up from unconsciousness slowly.There's something dripping down the side of his face: blood, he thinks; hopes, mostly, that that’s all it is. The taste of it is heavy on his tongue, the undersides of his teeth, his lips. Most of it isn't his own, but everything hurts. He doesn't think about the worst of it, the sharp ache between his legs; tries, instead, to figure out his surroundings through eyelids gummed shut with blood and a head still viciously pounding where they'd hit him more than once. He's face down on an uneven surface with his arm cuffed to his right ankle, his hips tilted up and his legs held apart by some kind of bar cuffed to his ankles. Naked, but that isn't unusual. They haven't let him wear clothes in months."So, Sergeant Barnes," a heavily accented voice says from somewhere above him, piercing through his sluggish thoughts, "We meet again."





	Tried, Condemned, Punished

**Author's Note:**

> For a [prompt on the trashmeme.](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=5463007#cmt5463007)

He drifts up from unconsciousness slowly.

There's something dripping down the side of his face: blood, he thinks; hopes, mostly, that that’s all it is. The taste of it is heavy on his tongue, the undersides of his teeth, his lips. Most of it isn't his own, but everything hurts. He doesn't think about the worst of it, the sharp ache between his legs; tries, instead, to figure out his surroundings through eyelids gummed shut with blood and a head still viciously pounding where they'd hit him more than once. He's face down on an uneven surface with his arm cuffed to his right ankle, his hips tilted up and his legs held apart by some kind of bar cuffed to his ankles. Naked, but that isn't unusual. They haven't let him wear clothes in months.

"So, Sergeant Barnes," a heavily accented voice says from somewhere above him, piercing through his sluggish thoughts, "We meet again."

He doesn't open his eyes: he's not giving Colonel Kleiner the satisfaction of a reaction just yet. After a few more seconds of silence a gloved finger traces a line over his left ankle and the cuff there. The next moment a sharp yank extends the bar at his ankles; with a click it locks into its new position, his legs spread wider. Like this, it's impossible to ignore how he must look, how the evidence of what the guards were doing to him is all on show now. Bucky tries not to flush at the familiar feel of still-warm semen dripping down the insides of his thighs.

"You understand, Sergeant," Kleiner says after a moment, "This wouldn't happen if you would just comply with our orders."

When Bucky doesn't deign to reply Kleiner goes on. "You bit one of my men earlier." He sighs. "I really thought we had made it past this. Apparently our previous session did not leave a lasting impression," his gloved hand traces over the ridged curve of Bucky's spine, over the still-healing lash marks where Kleiner'd whipped him bloody the last time they'd met. "Maybe a more memorable punishment will do the trick."

Without warning, his hand whips down, slapping hard against the exposed curve of Bucky's ass.

Bucky shouts, more out of shock than any real pain. Was that---did Kleiner really just---?

Two things hit him abruptly. First, the realisation that it's not the floor he's bent over, no: it's Kleiner's _lap_. Second is Kleiner's hand on his ass again, harder this time.

"Act out like a child, Sergeant Barnes," Kleiner says, calm, like he's talking about the weather, "And you will be punished as one."

Kleiner hits him a third time, and then again, and again, hard open-palmed slaps to the swell of Bucky's ass that sting and burn. He doesn't stop, not even when Bucky thrashes weakly in his restraints, trying to topple himself from Kleiner's lap. It doesn't work: Kleiner just hits him again again, until his whole ass feels as bruised as the rest of him.

It doesn't take long for that old familiar numbness to settle over him, the same thing that got him through Zola’s table, that gets him through all the things that the guards do to him: step away from the clamour of his body, and wait for it to be over. 

And then, finally: a reprieve. Kleiner shifts, his hand stilling in the air. As he resurfaces, Bucky finds himself bracing for a blow that doesn't come. 

Instead, Kleiner breaks the silence. 

"How many has it been?" 

"I don't know." 

Kleiner tsks. He sounds...disappointed. "I'm going to need you to do better than that, Sergeant Barnes." 

"We'll start from the beginning; thirty will do for now. Count them out." 

He raises his hand and brings it down in a sharp, open handed slap on Bucky's right cheek.

"One," Bucky grits out. 

Another blow, this time to the left. 

"Two."

On the next hit the tips of Kleiner's fingers catch the underside of his balls, his whole body jerking at the sharp throb of sensation. 

"Four." 

The following three are in quick succession, peppering his ass and thighs with more hard slaps. 

"Five. Six. Seven." 

By the tenth, mortification seizes him at the realisation that, despite the pain, despite the shame of it, despite the fact that he's bent over some HYDRA bastard's lap, despite all of it: his dick is beginning to stir. Where before there'd been only pain something new has begun to burn alongside it, entwined in it, stoked brighter with each hit of Kleiner's hand.

It's happened, sometimes, with the guards. When the pain of the first few has eased, the way made slick for those that follow to push in, and the little brushes of incidental stimulation as they thrust into him get him twitching to half-hardness. But never any more than that; the only pleasure they ever care about is their own. 

Which is why none of this makes sense: the way his cock thickens and swells between his legs at each heavy slap of Kleiner's gloved hand, his thighs trembling at the hot, bruised sensation on his ass that builds with each hit, the burn of it slowly transforming into something deeper, a thread of heat unspooling in his gut. This is---this is meant to be punishment. He's restrained face down on his knees with his hips tilted up to receive Kleiner's hand, the humiliation of it burning worse than his body ever does even after a dozen guards have taken their turn. 

It doesn't make sense - this shouldn't be happening, and yet, and yet, here he is: on his knees for a HYDRA officer and getting hard at his touch. Disgust clutches right at Bucky's throat, threatening to choke him. His eyelashes are damp, jaw clenched tight between each blow. He's not giving Kleiner the satisfaction of begging him to stop. 

Instead, he counts. The sooner this is over with, the better.

When they reach fifteen Kleiner shoves Bucky's knees further apart and delivers a heavy blow that cracks viciously against the back of his exposed balls. 

Bucky yells, his body jerking in the restraints, trying to curl in on itself.

"Fifteen," he manages to gasp out as the sharp rush of sensation overtakes him, hating how the aching throb of it makes his cock twitch between his legs despite the pain, firming up against his belly.

From this angle, it's hidden from Kleiner's sight, but it's only a matter of time before he notices. Already, he's taken note of the effectiveness of hitting Bucky's balls and put the knowledge to cruel use: at twenty five, they feel as swollen and bruised as the rest of him. 

Between his legs, his cock throbs painfully, as he pants out each counted blow. He's almost made it -- thirty, Kleiner had said, which means maybe, just maybe---

At twenty nine, Kleiner stops. 

The next moment he's reaching down between Bucky's spread legs. With gloved fingers closing around the base he angles Bucky's cock down and backwards, exposing it enough for the evidence of Bucky's depravity to be unmistakable: the fluid beading at the slit, the slick shaft, the way it throbs with each fierce pound of Bucky's heartbeat. Bucky grits his teeth, eyes clenched shut tight as Kleiner slowly traces the tip with one leather-clad finger, smearing the precome there. 

When he speaks, his voice is a low, crooning sneer. 

"Why, Sergeant Barnes," he says, "It almost appears as if you're enjoying this."

When Bucky doesn't respond, made mute with shame, Kleiner tightens his hold. 

"If I'd known you were going to like it, I'd have chosen a different method."

He brings his free hand down hard, slapping at the head of Bucky's cock. Bucky barely manages to bite back a yell. Kleiner does it again, then twice more in quick succession, batting it from side to side in his grip. Again, and again, humiliation flushing deep in Bucky's chest at what it must look like, dark inflamed red against the black leather of Kleiner's gloves. The shame of it hurts worse than the pain. 

When it's over, there's little relief to be had: impossibly, impossibly, he's still hard, despite the throbbing ache where Kleiner hit him. And worse:

"Sergeant Barnes," Kleiner says. "You seem to have stopped counting. Am I going to need to start again?" 

Horror seizes him; he can't, not again. Just get through this, he's been telling himself, the same way he always does; get through it and it'll be over soon, but this is unbearable, unendurable. He can't. He can't. He scrabbles for the number. 

"Thirty three---it's thirty three." And then, against every fibre of his being, because he needs this to be over: "Please. I'll be--I'll be good." 

“Very well, Sergeant,” Kleiner says. He sounds pleased; triumphant. “Seven more to go, I think.”

Bucky jolts when Kleiner’s fingers encircle the base of his sac, gritting his teeth as Kleiner tugs ungently, squeezing and angling it back until his balls are exposed. 

He braces himself for the next slap from Kleiner’s free hand, nerves sizzling with dread as the wait stretches on; because it’s not enough for Kleiner to humiliate him, he also has to toy with him as well. 

But the blow, when it comes, isn’t from a hand at all. It’s something solid, weighty, the heavy smack of it against him driving the breath from his lungs, pain ricocheting all the way up into him as he shudders through it. It’s a baton, Bucky realises when the pain eases enough to think; probably the same one he’s seen at Kleiner’s belt, the sick fuck.

Another pause, longer this time, until he remembers. 

“Thirty four,” he grits out, hating how shaky his voice has become. 

Kleiner rewards him with another blow, harder this time. Again, and again; the baton’s thick handle slamming against him with steady, calculated efficiency. Bucky counts them out, and then it's over. He made it through. It's over. He jerks in his restraints, testing their give. He did what Kleiner asked, and now he'll be let go, and returned to his cell.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Kleiner says, chiding; Bucky registers the sound of the baton hitting the floor, but Kleiner doesn’t ease his grip on his balls. “Not so fast, Sergeant Barnes. You were a lot better today. I think that deserves a reward.”

_No,_ Bucky wants to yell, _I did what you wanted,_ but there’s no knowing what Kleiner will do if he disobeys now; all he knows is that he can’t go through that again. 

He stays silent, even when Kleiner begins to tug and roll his balls in the palm of his gloved hand, sending aching jolts of sensation rippling up into his gut. The pain of before had softened him up some, but after a minute of Kleiner’s ministrations, he can feel his traitorous cock beginning to twitch back to life. His thigh trembles when he feels Kleiner’s other hand brush up against it, leather-clad fingers sliding up higher, tracing over the swell of his ass and then spreading him apart, a little. 

The pain of the spanking has tightened him up some, but not enough to stop Kleiner’s finger from pressing in past the ring of loosened muscle. Bucky grits his teeth, trying to tighten up, to keep Kleiner out, but even now his body betrays him, letting Kleiner’s finger slide easily in through the slick of come still inside until he's up to the knuckle. After a moment he draws back with a slick noise, pulling all the way out and then pressing back in smoothly with two, opening Bucky up with deep, twisting strokes. 

Closing his eyes makes it worse, narrowing his awareness down to the precise sensation of Kleiner’s fingers pumping into him in steady rhythm. Worst is how it barely hurts at all - they’d already fucked him loose before, and now Kleiner’s going to take his turn as well. _Some reward,_ Bucky thinks, trying to focus on the surge of disgust and what they’ve done to him, what they keep doing to him, and not on the sparks of heat flickering in his aching groin. It’ll pass - Kleiner will fuck him, and then it’ll be over and he can go back to being alone in his cell. 

Except that Kleiner’s pace is still so _slow,_ not like the hasty jabs of the other guards trying to open him up enough to fit their dicks inside, regardless of whether he bleeds. Between the firm squeezes of his hand and the thrust of his fingers it isn’t long before Bucky's dick has fattened up completely. 

On the next push inside, Kleiner’s hand stills, his fingers curling, rubbing his fingertips gently over something that makes Bucky’s whole body seize, gasping at the rush of heat and feeling his cock pulse another blurt of wet when Kleiner repeats the motion. 

“That's right, Sergeant Barnes, give it up.” 

Bucky thrashes, more violently this time, frantic; anything to get away from Kleiner’s touch, from those fingers pressing into him, stroking up inside him, but Kleiner is relentless. A firm hand on his lower back pins Bucky in place, pressing down until his hips are angled just _so_ , Kleiner's wrist bumping against the inside of Bucky’s thigh each time he pumps his fingers in. 

“You were so good for me today, Sergeant Barnes. I know it was difficult for you; your obedience deserves a rightful reward,” and Kleiner’s pulling at his aching, swollen balls with firm tugs of his hand, the dizzying ache of it an unbearable counterpoint to the thrust of his fingers, and Bucky fights it, clinging to the last scrap of dignity he has left, but in the end - like everything they’ve taken from him - it isn’t enough. 

It starts in his thighs first, a weak tremble that builds until he’s shaking all over as the sensation hits its peak. His balls draw up in Kleiner’s grip, dick jerking as he begins to come, spurting wet over his thighs and chest and Kleiner’s lap beneath him, but Kleiner doesn’t pause, doesn’t slow, rubbing steadily at that spot inside and squeezing ruthlessly at Bucky’s balls, milking it out of him as he seizes up around Kleiner’s fingers. 

His vision greys out, time stuttering around him; he comes back to himself to the sound of Kleiner’s fingers easing free with a slick noise, his hole twitching at the absence, unable to close. He’s still shaking, slightly, shivering with something like shock, shuddering harder as he registers the sensation of warm come cooling on his skin. For the first time it isn’t someone else’s. 

A gloved hand strokes over his back, soothingly. 

“Very good, Sergeant Barnes. The guards will return you to your cell. You will be fed, watered, bathed.” 

Fingers on his chin, tipping his head up until he blinks damp eyes open. 

“This is how it can be, Sergeant Barnes,” Kleiner says softly. “You don’t have to keep fighting it.” 

Bucky closes his eyes and turns away. When the guards come to return him to his cell, he lets them. 

**Author's Note:**

> There's probably a correlation between my general mood being Not Great and the urge to write terrible things happening to my favourite characters...sorry Bucky (and Shiro, too - I haven't abandoned him yet!) 
> 
> Having some vague thinky thoughts about what a post-WS sequel might look like, and how Bucky might navigate around decades of sexual trauma - specifically related to the act of being fingered and also orgasming in general - in a relationship with Steve and Sam. It's on the vague to-do list; if that's something you'd be interested in, let me know!


End file.
